


Bad, bad Alphonse Capone

by Blackbeltkitten2



Series: Bad, Bad Alphonse Capone, and his pals. [1]
Category: Night at the Museum (Movies)
Genre: Chapter names may change later, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fic inspired by a song, Fluff and Angst, Foul Language, I'll come up with more tags later, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Originally posted on my Tumblr ficblog, Some slightly graphic violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-08-23 17:00:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16622852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackbeltkitten2/pseuds/Blackbeltkitten2
Summary: Al and the boys practically beg (Though they won’t stoop so far as to say they were actually begging.) to be colored up like everyone else.  Finally one day they get a paint-job, despite McPhee’s ever-present paranoia; Capone and the gang being popular in grey-scale.  Several weeks after they finally get what they want, Al gets in a fight, and doesn’t come out of it well.  Luckily for him Napoleon is compassionate enough to put up with Al’s grating personality to help him.





	1. Well the south side of Chicago, is the baddest part of town.

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to the song “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” by Jim Croce about a thousand times and decided I just HAD to make a fic. The reason Al and the boys get made into color (as a plot point) is so everyone can see what happens to Al.
> 
> If anyone is OOC or this reads like a Dick & Jane, this is my second posted fic and I haven’t done much writing in the NATM field. (Disclaimer: I don’t own the song, nor the characters.) (If anything suddenly changes, I had to fix a mistake I missed.)
> 
> I’m sorry if it’s slow or doesn’t sound interesting, the second chapter will be uploaded shortly.
> 
> (If any formatting seems out of whack, I didn't notice it.)

Well the south side of Chicago, is the baddest part of town,

And if you go down there, you better just beware, 

Of a man named Alphonse Capone.

_

“Come on! It ain’t like we’re asking for real, workin’ bullets, Slim! We jus’ don’t wanna look like a damn photograph! Is a little color too much to ask for?”

Larry threw his book about Greek mythology down on the counter and dragged a hand across his face. “Al, can I call you Al? Listen, it’s not my decision what you look like, it’s Dr. McPhee’s, and it’s as easy to convince him about exhibit changes as it is to get a tree to tapdance.” Al and the boys standing behind him sank a little.

“But, I’ll talk to him.” The group beams. “But don’t get your hopes up! McPhee might not agree with me and keep you black-and-white.”

“Ay, at least you’ll ask, that's better than straight-up refusin’.”

Larry sighs. The interaction with McPhee is going to be interesting.

_

“Where’s this coming from, Daley?” Larry grasps for an answer that doesn’t sound insane.

“Well... You know how everyone sees the 20s in black-and-white? I thought maybe changing the lifesized figures of the Al Capone exhibit into color might help change that.”

McPhee does that thing where he pats his fist and rocks on his toes while staring into the distance. Larry braces for that uncomfortable “Sorry..... No, carry on.... Dale- Larry, Larry Daley.” that he gets.

“Alright, we’ll try it. But if it isn’t popular...” He motions around the room awkwardly.

“You’ll..... Change it back?”

“Yes, back. Good day, Daley...” McPhee spins around, yelling at a group of kids about to draw something obscene on an exhibit tag, and huffs down the hallway. Larry puffs out a breath of relief.

“That went better than expected.”

_

“He’ll be gone? I won’t hear him insult me for a whole week?”

Larry nods. Napoleon raises his arms, palms up, and closes his eyes.

“Peace and quiet, at last. Now I can put the new exhibit to good use.”

“I’m not sure I want to know what he’s going to do in there...”

Teddy chuckles. “He’s probably planning to sleep, Lawrence.”

The Al Capone exhibit was closed the next week while they were sent off for a paint-job. The night after it was closed Napoleon walks up to Larry.

“Do you hear that, u mo amicu?” Larry listens intently, expecting blaring bugle calls or the beat of drums, or a fight.

“I don’t hear anything...”

“Accunciatu! Nothing! Absolutely nothing! Do you know why?” Larry quirks his eyebrow.

Napoleon inhales deeply. “Alphonse Gabriel Capone isn’t here, yelling at me. Pure silence is left where he once stood.”

Larry rolls his eyes and turns towards his book, finding his bookmark. “Alright, enjoy it while it lasts.”

“I plan to do just that. Do you know they have a replica of a bed I used?”

_

The third night was disrupted by an angry scream. Larry’s book and the floor became acquainted loudly. Larry sighs. “Now what’s wrong with Napoleon?”

Larry jogs down the hall and skids to a halt at the doorway of the Napoleon exhibit. “Aw, what is it now?”

One of the Puritans stares at Napoleon with anger. “Good evening, mister Daley.”

“Good evening, Pastor Brewster. What’s going on?”

“This Puritan...” Napoleon gestures towards him in fury.

“Monsieur Bonaparte was grumbling about something or the other, and I suggested he join my people for prayers, I’m not sure what he said back to me, but I didn’t like the tone.”

Larry inwardly sighs.

“I merely suggested he put on his big boy breeches.”

“MY big boy breeches? Look who’s wearing trousers!”

“I find them less restricting while still offering the same amount of modesty!”

Napoleon growled. Brewster looked fit to burst.

“Hey! Hey now! Pastor Brewster, you and your people can go pray, I’ll talk to Napoleon.”

Brewster bows curtly towards Napoleon and heads for the door, his congregation following while sending Napoleon dirty looks.

Larry sticks his hand out to stop the Pastor momentarily. “I hope he didn’t offend you, normally at this hour he and Al Capone are tangling. I think he’s just vying for an argument to let off steam..."

“He made no offense. He’s no problem, it seemed as though he had an issue and I had hoped to resolve it... Perhaps I did...” Brewster pats Larry on the shoulder. “Thank you for your consideration, mister Daley.”

Larry steps into the exhibit room as the sounds of the Puritans fade away.

“Hey man... What’s up? I thought you wanted silence?” Napoleon huffs and sits down in his chair, arms crossed petulantly.

“I did, I do.”

“Then why, pray tell, were you fighting? With a pastor?”

“I don’t know.”

“You still look like you want to fight, do you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why were you grumbling at pastor Brewster anyway?”

“I don’t know!”

Larry grips his shoulder.

“I’m going to go make my rounds, are you going to scream at more people?”

“No.”

“Alright, see you later.”

“Bona notte, Daley.”

_

“Well, one last day of quiet, better enjoy it, Napoleon.”

“In effetti, Daley. Enjoy your night!”

Napoleon jogged up stairs to where the archives were kept.

“Ehi! Chì ci site in quì?“

“What....?”

Napoleon jogs back down the stairs, and presents his open hand, with two miniatures.

“I’m not even gonna ask what you two were doing in the archives...”

Octavius looks smug. “Archaeology.”

“Sure.” Larry takes Jed and Octavius and walks toward the hall of miniatures.

“So, archaeology?”

Larry hears a snicker from his palm.

“You two planning on doing some more archaeology soon?”

They shrug.

“Can you, I don’t know, maybe do archaeology in Octavius’ house?”

“Might work out better. Will do, Gigantor.”

_

Al stretches to his limit. “Whoo! Feels like I’ve been asleep for a week. Oh wait...” Al quirks his eyebrow and elbows Frankie as he walks by.

“Good one, Big Boss.”

The whole mob gathers around a mirror kindly left in the hallway outside their room.

Larry walks up about three minutes into the hair brushing, eyebrow smoothing, and checking every inch of their own body they could easily reach for color.

“Well fellas?”

"Thanks, Slim!”

“I can see my own freckles!”

“Daisy won’t be able to keep her hands offa me.”

“Good.”

The gang saunters into the lobby behind Larry, practically glowing. 

_

Napoleon looked up from his book to see the group, but it took a moment to realize it was Al and his men. “Non, surely that’s not...”

Al walks up to him. “Ay, like what ya see?”

“Baudet... So, you’re just as alive and fleshy as me.“

Al’s three-piece suit is a fine navy with silver pinstripes, his tie is a clean white, stickpin glinting in the light, the blue stripes on his shirt are barely noticeable, and his hat is a nice shade of grey-brown, the band charcoal grey. His hair is very dark brown, almost black, and his eyes are incredible, deep steely blue, flecked with green and ringed with brown. Stunning, for a more modern man, in Napoleon’s opinion.

Al snorts. “Thanks, Shortstack.”

“Don’t call me-”

“I know, I know, ‘Don’t call me Shortstack.’, ‘Don’t call me Nippy.’, ‘Don’t call me any fun nickname.’, you’re impossible to please, ya know?”

Napoleon rolls his eyes.

“Be that way, French Stick. I’m gonna go see what the ladies think of me now.” Al winks at him and spins around, practically strutting down the hallway. Napoleon fights the urge to stare.

_

Two weeks later, Napoleon and Al have fought a total of nine times, and neither of them has won. Larry was getting a bit tired of it.

“Guys, what is it with you two? Is it impossible to just, I don’t know, not fight?”

Larry glares at them where they are on the floor, in a tangled heap. They stare at each other a moment.

“It’s what we do, mon amie.”

“Besides, what else could we do? There ain’t even a punchin’ bag around.”

Larry gestures around the room. “Fine, do whatever you want. Just stay in the lobby, nothing expensive and old to break.”

“Will do, Slim.”

“Voulu, we will only wrestle in the lobby.”

_

Music is playing from a laptop on the counter, Jed and Octavius dance nearby.

Al saunters from the Old Spain exhibit, with a pretty flamenco dancer next to him; Her dress shimmers and sways along to her elegant strut.

Napoleon watches them walk by from behind his book.

The pair talk casually, occasionally glancing over at the two miniatures dancing nearby.

Minutes later the clacks of dancing shoes echo down the hallway, and another flamenco dancer walks into the lobby; Specifically, the brother of the flamenco dancer Al is talking with. His eyes are full of rage and his jaw is set.

Larry doesn’t have to time to react before he shoves Al down and starts kicking and punching the Hell out of him.


	2. Alphonse looked like a jigsaw puzzle, with a couple of pieces gone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Al and the boys practically beg (Though they won’t stoop so far as to say they were actually begging.) for him and his gang to be colored up like everyone else. Finally one day they get a paint-job, despite McPhee’s ever-present paranoia; Capone and the gang being popular in grey-scale. Several weeks after they finally get what they want, Al gets in a fight, and doesn’t come out of it well. Luckily for him Napoleon is compassionate enough to put up with Al’s grating personality to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the song “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” by Jim Croce about a thousand times and decided I just HAD to make a fic. The reason Al and the boys get made into color (as a plot point) is so everyone can see what happens to Al.
> 
> If anyone is OOC or this reads like a Dick & Jane, this is my second posted fic and I haven’t done much writing in the NATM field. (Disclaimer: I don’t own the song, nor the characters.) (If anything suddenly changes, I had to fix a mistake I missed.)
> 
> (Yes, I totally named the French military doctor after Alain Chabat, the actor who plays Napoleon in the movie.)

Well the two men took to fighting, and when they pulled them from the floor,

Alphonse looked like a jigsaw puzzle, with a couple of pieces gone.

_

There’s a glint of metal in the Spaniard’s hand. Before Larry can say so much as ‘Knife!', Shaka Zulu’s warriors surge forward and begin to drag the man off of Al. Napoleon’s book falls to the floor.

It takes four Zulu warriors to pull him off of Al.

Napoleon has his rapier drawn and pointed right at the dancer’s throat. “I wouldn’t move, if I were you.”

Larry presses his fingers into Napoleon’s wrist to slacken his grip on the sword; He hands it to one of the Zulu warriors and steps between the Spaniard and Corsican.

“Emperor Zulu, if I can address you as such, please have a few of your warriors take Al to the night guard office, if Napoleon insists on coming, let him.”

Al is laying half on his side on the floor, legs drawn partly to his chest, desperately covering his face. He’s shaking a little.

It takes three Zulu warriors to lift Al from the floor.

Once his arms are braced around the shoulders of two of the warriors, they can see the bruises and welts forming across his face; but more importantly, three bloody slashes to the left side of his face and neck.

Napoleon rushes them off to the night guard office.

Larry turns back to the flamenco dancer. “What’s your name?”

“Antonio Villalobos.”

“Alright, Antonio, why the Hell did you just attack Al?”

“That... That cabrón was getting in my sister’s business!”

The sister in question scoffs. “I wanted him around!”

“Oh? What are your fiancé’s thoughts about that?”

“For your information, Ramón broke the engagement when he laid his lips on that Celtic woman!”

“¡No recuerdo haber visto eso!”

“No eres la vela más brillante en la habitación, ¡no recuerdas nada!“

The woman, who Larry believes is named Mariana, slaps Antonio so hard he nearly falls down.

“Alright! Stop!” Larry cut through them. “Emperor Zulu, please have your warriors take mister Villalobos to the break room to cool off. Miss Villalobos would you go back to your exhibit room, please.”

Once the two were gone Larry made his way for his office.

_

The warriors sat Al on the desk, he swayed a little but managed to keep himself upright. They take off his jacket, vest, hat, and tie.

Napoleon rummages around in several drawers and three cabinets before he finds the first aid kit.

When he approaches Al with a cotton ball of antiseptic Al flinches away.

“It’s only alcohol.” 

Al looks up at Napoleon with his good eye, Napoleon has a hard time reading his gaze.

“How does it look?”

His right eye is swollen shut and the skin across his nose is split. He has a large bruise on the right side of his jaw and his left eyebrow has a split in it. His lips are busted in three places, swollen, purple, and bleeding. His temple was swelling as well. Napoleon purposely avoids looking directly at the cuts for the moment.

“It could be worse, your lips are bleeding and you’re covered in bruises, but otherwise you’ll be fine. Sapemu da certu.”

Napoleon moves to swipe the cotton ball over Al’s nose but he’s stopped by a painful grip on his wrist.

“No, the slashes. Describe 'em.”

They were far from lethal, they weren’t gushing blood, but they must hurt like Hell. Every time Al swallowed or spoke the skin stretched and more blood dribbled out of them. It made Napoleon’s stomach clench in sympathy.

“They could be worse. In fact I’ve seen worse, u mo Diu, aghju avutu peor. But if you insist...”

Al nods.

“There’s a short one here,” Napoleon points to his own neck. “About from the tip to the first knuckle of your thumb in length.”

“One of the same length here.” Napoleon moves his finger up to his jaw, about an inch out from his ear.

“And one about as long as your first finger, in a curve from the top of your ear to mid-cheek...” Napoleon draws it out on his face.

“Not again, caro Dio non ancora.....” Al slumps where he sits, and releases Napoleon’s arm. He decides to ask questions later and take the opportunity to tilt Al’s head to the side and dab at the gashes with the soaked cotton ball.

_

Larry pauses in the doorway of his office.

Napoleon is carefully cleaning the wounds on Al’s neck and face.

“Uh, Napoleon? I’m gonna go get ice, is there anything else I should bring? Normally I’m helping the civil war soldiers patch up, literally, after a reenactment, not... Not this...”

“Oui, could you find a docteur? One of my own, one of the miniatures, doesn’t matter.”

Larry jogs off, presumably towards the break room. Napoleon pushes the door shut with his foot.

“Capone, may I remove your shirt?”

“Shouldn’t ya at least take me out ta dinner first?” Al smirks, albeit painfully.

Napoleon snorts and begins unbuttoning his shirt.

“Ay, I didn’t say yes, did I?”

“I need to check for other open wounds, or would you enjoy the fevers that come with infection more?”

Al blinks his better eye several times. “Alright, fine...”

_

“I’d like to thank both of you for volunteering, I didn’t think anyone would want to come, what with all the Al-on-Napoleon fighting, and that hourglass incident at the Smithsonian because of one of Al’s men.”

“We both saw what happened to Capone. I am more than willing to help.”

“Besides, the whole hourglass thing wasn’t completely Al’s fault, that was Kahmun-nutbag’s fault. Long as he don’t plan on puttin’ anyone in an hourglass, I’m gonna help him.”

Larry knocks on the door before slowly opening it.

“I’ve brought doctors.”

“Entrer.”

Al is shirtless, and has several bruises across his arms and chest.

“Mon Dieu... I assume you need us for the sutures, Général Bonaparte?”

“Oui. ‘Us’?”

Larry holds out Doc McClain from the Old West diorama.

Napoleon nods and steps back for Docteur Alain, who takes the needle and surgical thread from the First Aid kit and readies to sew up the wound on Al’s neck.

“Have any liquor? Somethin’ to numb him?”

“I’ll be fine, Nippy already burned the Hell outta me with the alcohol, I got enough adrenaline for three guys.”

Napoleon sighs but doesn’t make a comment on being called 'Nippy' for the thousandth time.

Carefully, the doctor sews up all three gashes. Al still flinches every time the needle pierces his skin.

“There you go, monsieur Capone.”

“What about bandages, Doc?”

“I... I assumed Général Bonaparte would want to do that... They’ll need to be changed once a day.”

Larry slides over and sets the bag of ice and rag down on the desk.

“I’m gonna go bring Doctor McClain back to the Old West...”

“Ah, that’s right, Docteur McClain, I have been meaning to ask if you would show me your médical tent.”

“Please, call me Jess.”

The door closes loudly behind them.

Napoleon wipes his fingers clean with an alcohol towelette.

“What could you have possibly said or done to that lady that would’ve caused her brother to do... This.” He gestures towards the perfectly stitched wounds.

“I asked her if she wanted to go for a walk. I didn’t hit on her. I didn’t dare to make a move on her...”

“I should hope you didn’t hit her. You didn’t accidentally say something disrespectful?”

“That’s not what hittin’ on someone means. No, I didn't. If I’m honest I didn’t say much, besides askin’ how she was...”

Al holds the bag of ice to his swollen eye.

Napoleon carefully tapes some gauze over the wounds before putting everything back in the box and bringing back over to the cabinet.

“Might I ask what, exactly, is a ‘move’, and what it means to ‘hit on’ someone?”

Al grins to himself. “Well, hittin’ on someone is flirtin’.”

“Is a ‘move’ flirtation as well?”

“No, not exactly. Makin’ a move is... Well, if you’ve been datin’ someone a while, and ya want to take em to bed, you’d make a move. Asking politely, gentle caress up the thigh, runnin’ your hand down their back...”

“Oh, a request for coupling.”

Al hums a little. “If that’s another way to say it, yeah.”

Napoleon smirks a bit before closing the cabinet and walking back over to the desk, picking up Al’s shirt on the way.

“I regret to say it’s ruined.”

The collar was ripped and soaked in blood.

“Agh, damn it! That was my best shirt.”

“Unfortunately, this is one thing the docteur can’t fix.”

Al sighs morosely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Cabrón = Ass/Asshole/Bastard
> 
> ¡No recuerdo haber visto eso! = I do not remember seeing that!
> 
> No eres la vela más brillante en la habitación, ¡no recuerdas nada! = You are not the brightest candle in the room, you do not remember anything!
> 
> Sapemu da certu. = I know for certain.
> 
> U mo Diu, aghju avutu peor. = My God, have I seen worse.
> 
> Caro Dio non ancora..... = Dear God not again.....
> 
> Oui = Yes
> 
> Docteur = Doctor
> 
> Entrer = Enter/Come in
> 
> Mon Dieu = My God
> 
> Général = General
> 
> Médical = Medical


	3. Scarface Versus Snorky.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al and the boys practically beg (Though they won’t stoop so far as to say they were actually begging.) for him and his gang to be colored up like everyone else. Finally one day they get a paint-job, despite McPhee’s ever-present paranoia; Capone and the gang being popular in grey-scale. Several weeks after they finally get what they want, Al gets in a fight, and doesn’t come out of it well. Luckily for him Napoleon is compassionate enough to put up with Al’s grating personality to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the song “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” by Jim Croce about a thousand times and decided I just HAD to make a fic. The reason Al and the boys get made into color (as a plot point) is so everyone can see what happens to Al.
> 
> If anyone is OOC or this reads like a Dick & Jane, this is my second posted fic and I haven’t done much writing in the NATM field. (Disclaimer: I don’t own the song, nor the characters.) (If anything suddenly changes, I had to fix a mistake I missed.)
> 
> (I am starting to see why they say “The beginning and end are easy, the middle is hard.” this chapter is either going to be good, or real fucking boring, you decide.)

Thank God Larry got a bottle of fleshtone latex for Halloween.

Disguising Al’s stitching for every morning was far easier than he’d thought it would be.

_

Al was ready for this nightmare to be over. ‘Change his bandages once a day.’

Napoleon is nothing if not dutiful. He’s done just as prescribed, every day, the past couple days. Al is getting sick of it.

Al sits on the desk, slapping Napoleon’s hand away for the second time.

“Quit tryna mollycoddle me, I can do it myself!”

“I plan to do as Docteur Chaput told, you cannot stop me.”

Al slaps his hand away again.

_

Everyone hears an angry screech from the office.

“They were doing so well...” Teddy sighs, unwrapping himself from Sacagawea.

“I thought it was amusing, their little vendetta. Now it’s annoying.” She chuckles.

“I laughed the first time as well, but since they’ve been consistently interrupting our evenings...” Teddy rubs his temples.

“We really should go see what they’re doing. If Al breaks his stitching it could make things worse.” Sacagawea stands and pulls Teddy off of the bench and through the doorway.

_

“Come on! Really guys?” Larry stares at the two.

“He keeps changin’ my bandages, and I already told him, I can do it myself!”

Napoleon puts all of his weight on Al’s stomach and tightens his grip on Al’s chin, dangerously close to the wounds on his cheek, making Al squint.

“I told the docteur I would change them, I refuse to go back on my word!”

Larry sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.

“Get up, guys. Al, let Napoleon dress your wounds.”

“Aw, come on!”

Napoleon grins triumphantly once they’re both righted.

“Sit.” Napoleon points at the desk. 

Larry gives them both a pointed look and leaves, meeting Teddy and Sac in the hallway and closing the door.

“I have a question.”

“Shoot, Nippy.”

“When I described your injuries, you looked and sounded... Distraught. Why?”

Al’s eyes search the wall over Napoleon’s shoulder. “It’s nothing, Shortstack...”

Napoleon knits his eyebrows together but doesn’t press on. He’s seen trauma, mild to severe, physical and emotional, and thinks he should give Al some time before asking again.

That doesn’t mean he won’t look into Al’s history to see if that gives him any information, though.

_

Napoleon walks towards Al’s room. He spots a group of Al’s gangsters near by. He catches a fleeting bit of their whispered conversation, where they lean on the wall opposite the Al Capone exhibit.

“Damn, Big Boy looks rough. I ain’t never seen him this bad.”

“Yeah, even when they first started callin’ him Scarface he didn’t look so... Depressed?”

“Least we can do is start callin’ him Snorky again, what do ya say, Ralph?”

“Best idea you’ve had in a while, Tony.”

Napoleon looks into the room from the doorway.

Al is looking at a hand mirror dejectedly, lifting the latex carefully and examining the stitches.

Napoleon gets a few steps into the room before Al’s men grab him by the arms.

“Ehi! Miullu, i idioti!“

Al almost drops the mirror. He spins around and holds up a hand to keep the gangsters from dragging Napoleon to the door.

“French Toast, what the Hell are ya doin’ here?”

“I wanted to remind you to meet me in the office, evidently your men dislike my commitment.”

“Nippy, don’t be dramatic, I told em to keep everyone out. Thanks for remindin’ me though...”

_

“Monsieur Daley, can you teach me how to use that, uh, laptop?”

“Yeah sure, what do you want to look up?”

Napoleon fumbles for a moment.

“No that’s alright, you don’t have to tell me. Here, sit... Now see the keys? Press them gently to make words...”

Napoleon accidentally runs twelve W’s into the search bar, causing Larry to snicker.

“Now you know that can happen, use the backspace to erase all but one.”

Napoleon is a little less heavy-handed this time.

There, now if you can manage to spell everything well enough- Don’t give me that look, I know how spelling worked back in your days. Anyway you should get the results you want. Press the enter key when you wanna make it search.”

Larry holds the mouse and slides it around.

“Use this to click on things-” He deliberately clicks it a few times. “-And that little X in the corner will close everything.”

“Grazie, Monsieur Daley.”

“No problemo. I’m gonna go do a round, catch you later.”

Larry pats him on the back and walks off

Napoleon, backspacing the remaining W and, carefully selecting keys, types out ‘Al Capone injuries’.

The little circle spins, then ‘The infectious disease that sprung Al Capone from Alcatraz.’

“I hope the tablet got rid of that...”

Napoleon moves the little hand down and clicks on one link simply titled ‘Al Capone’, and hopes for the best.

Luck is on his side. To the right side of the screen is what is presumably a photo of Al when he was older, in black and white. He’s wearing a nice dark grey three piece suit, a shiny, striped tie, white shirt and pocket square, and a shiny watch chain. He’s also gained weight and lost hair. The banner under the photo reads ‘Al Capone in 1930.’

“Yet he pokes at me because of the paintings I commissioned when I was in my forties. It must run in Italian blood... Or it’s all the bread and cheese.”

Al was born in the Brooklyn borough of New York City.

“That’s not very far from the museum, is it? I wonder if I could convince Larry to take Al and myself there..”

His parents, Teresa and Gabriele, immigrated from Angri, Italy.

He had eight siblings, six brothers and two sisters.

He did well in school but had difficulty following the rules at his parochial Catholic school. He was expelled permanently at fourteen for hitting a female teacher.

“At least I didn’t hit my teachers, u mo Diu.“

He worked at a bowling alley and a candy store, and was influenced Johnny Torrio, whom he later regarded as a mentor.

First he got involved with the Junior Forty Thieves, then the Bowery Boys. Then he joined the Brooklyn Rippers, and after that the powerful Five Points Gang.

He was employed by mentor and racketeer Frankie Yale, who tended bar at a dance hall and saloon called the Harvard Inn.

“Saloon? I thought that was only in the West in the eighteen seventies?”

Al inadvertently insulted a woman while working at the door of a nightclub in Brooklyn and was slashed by her brother Frank Gallucio.

“Oh...”

Napoleon opens a new tab, searches ‘Al Capone scars’ and pulls up a photo that marks each slash with a number.

They match scarily close to the fresh ones on the side of Al’s face now.

Napoleon’s mouth falls open slightly and his eyebrows pull together. He switches back to the other tab.

The wounds caused people to give him the nickname ’Scarface’ which Al loathed. His close friends called him 'Snorky', a word for sharp dresser.

“Ay Nippy, watcha doin’?”

Napoleon quickly closes out the browser and shuts the laptop, none-too-gracefully. Al smirks at him.

“Thought we were gonna meet in the office, what have ya been doin’?”

“Nothing, I was looking something up. None of your concern.”

“Mhm, ‘lookin’ something up.’ Be sure clear the history when you’re done.”

Al spins around and saunters off towards the office.

_

“So, Short Stuff, did you enjoy ‘lookin’ something up.’? Was it... Sexy?”

Napoleon pulls the latex off roughly.

“It was informative. The two photographs I looked at were... A bit attractive. No contest with the real thing, though.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Al pulls a knowing smirk. He doesn’t know as much as he thinks he does though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Docteur = Doctor (French)
> 
> Ehi! Miullu, i idioti! = Hey! Let me go, you idiots! (Corsican)
> 
> Monsieur = Mister (French)
> 
> Grazie = Thank you (Corsican)
> 
> U mo Diu = My God (Corsican)


	4. It was all his fault.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al and the boys practically beg (Though they won’t stoop so far as to say they were actually begging.) for him and his gang to be colored up like everyone else. Finally one day they get a paint-job, despite McPhee’s ever-present paranoia; Capone and the gang being popular in grey-scale. Several weeks after they finally get what they want, Al gets in a fight, and doesn’t come out of it well. Luckily for him Napoleon is compassionate enough to put up with Al’s grating personality to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the song “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” by Jim Croce about a thousand times and decided I just HAD to make a fic. The reason Al and the boys get made into color (as a plot point) is so everyone can see what happens to Al.
> 
> If anyone is OOC or this reads like a Dick & Jane, this is my second posted fic and I haven’t done much writing in the NATM field. (Disclaimer: I don’t own the song, nor the characters.) (If anything suddenly changes, I had to fix a mistake I missed.)

Al walks along the left hallway into the lobby, hands in his pockets. He spots Napoleon, reading something on a laptop.

He suddenly gets a brilliant idea, as he quietly walks up behind Napoleon.

“Ay Nippy, watcha doin’?”

Napoleon jerks and closes out whatever he was looking at, all but slamming the laptop shut. He spins around, his face the perfect mix of shock and irritation.

“Thought we were gonna meet in the office, what have ya been doin’?”

“Nothing, I was looking something up. None of your concern.” He says just a little too quickly, like he had been caught doing something bad. He’s set himself up for public humiliation, but something in the look on his face keeps Al from doing it. He settles for something quieter.

“Mhm, ‘lookin’ something up.’ Be sure clear the history when you’re done.”

Napoleon’s eyes widen before his face settles into a scowl.

Al spins around and saunters off until he’s out of view, before jogging quietly to the office. He manages to avoid running into anyone who speaks English, or speaks at all really.

Once inside he shuts the door and leans on it, shoulders hunched. He runs a hand across his face and yanks his hat off, throwing it on the couch.

Looking in the mirror on the cabinet door, he feels the stitches through the latex. He gets the first aid kit out and puts it on the desk, sitting down next to it to wait for Napoleon.

They hadn’t included his scars during painting, by some fluke or miracle. He’s suffered through them once, surely that’s enough?

A moment later Napoleon slides in and closes the door.

“Bonjour, Capone.”

Al has to pull himself together quickly.

Napoleon removes one latex cover carefully, tenderly.

“So, Short Stuff, did you enjoy ‘lookin’ something up.’? Was it… Sexy?”

He practically rips the next cover off. Al flinches from the feeling.

“It was informative. The two photographs I looked at were… A bit attractive. No contest with the real thing, though.” He mumbles, not making eye contact.

“Yeah, I bet.” Al pulls a knowing smirk. “So.... Who was it?”

Napoleon pulls the last cover off slowly, causing the area to sting.

“As I said earlier, none of your concern.”

Al nods, tapping the underside of the nearby desk chair with his toe.

“I’ll find out, ya know.”

“Of course you will.”

_

“Hey, hey boss? We want ta start callin’ ya Snorky again, can we?”

Napoleon snorts from where he stands behind Al.

“Sure, it was one of my favorite nicknames, fellas.”

Al slaps Tony on the back.

“So... Snorky?”

“Yeah, French Stick?”

“What does Snorky mean?”

“Means sharp dresser. Anyway, I got plans, see ya fellas.”

Al walks down the hallway towards the botanical garden exhibit. He overhears a bit of conversation before he rounds the corner.

“Napoleon, do ya know how lucky you are?”

“What do you mean, monsieur Ralph?”

“There ain’t many people that get to call Al ‘Snorky’, just close friends. I thought he didn’t like ya much, but he didn’t hit ya when you called him Snorky. Didn’t tell ya not to call him that, either.”

“Oh...”

Al grins at Napoleon’s little ‘Oh’. He isn’t exactly sure what he’d consider Napoleon, but he doesn’t hate him. Hell, he's been downright pleasant the past few days. Helping change his bandages is nice, if he can bring himself to concede to it. Intentionally avoiding his neck whenever they end up on the floor.

Lost in thought, he nearly runs into Ivan at the doorway of the botanical garden.

“Damn man, why the Hell are ya just standing in the middle of the floor?”

“My apologies, I was pondering whether I wanted to walk the rows of plants or not. I do not want a bug up my robes. Это неприятная мысль.”

“Ah. Have fun decidin’, I’m gonna sit on a bench and relax.”

“And you have fun, xороший сэр. Might I say your eye looks better as well.”

“Oh, uh thanks.”

Ivan turns and walks away, coat flapping behind him.

The botanical garden buzzes with insects, bees bump into flowers, dragonflies sit still on twigs, praying mantises wait patiently in the leaves, butterflies swoop around a large butterfly bush, drooping with blooms.

The whole room smells like a field in summer, but without the risk of your head swelling up like a blimp.

Al pulls out a small pocket mirror as he sits down on the bench to check his eye.

It’s starting to turn purple-y-brown and yellow, and he can see out of it now, thankfully.

The split on his nose has scabbed over, and his lips look much better, though they’re still darker than normal, and split open again if he pulls too hard.

He doesn’t think he can look at his neck again today without feeling sick. He remembers the first time it happened, as clear as if it happened tonight.

Eighteen and cocky, he was waiting tables, serving bootleg alcohol, and manning the door at the Harvard Inn, a sketchy bar on the Coney Island boardwalk, ran by his mentor, fellow racketeer, and eventual friend Frankie Yale.

Three new patrons enter the bar, a man and two ladies, one hanging off of the man’s arm, the other close by. They’re shown to seats and Al watches them order food and drinks. Lots of drinks. If Al took every drink the man ordered and poured it into a container, and made it a new measurement, he’d name it ‘A Shitton.’

The man is Frank Galluccio, and one of the ladies is Lena Galluccio, Frank’s sister. The other woman is his date, Maria Tanzio.

Frank is pounding back the drinks. Al, in all his short months of working here, hasn’t seen one person drink so much so quickly. Then Al notices Lena.

Lena is gorgeous, one of the prettiest dames Al has ever seen. Her dark hair and nice eyes shine in the candle light. He can barely bring himself to peel his eyes away from her.

After twenty minutes of trying to do his job, he just has to talk to her.

Lucky for him she’s crossing the dance floor. Slapping on his most charming and foolproof grin, he walks over, straightening his tie and vest, and stops her.

“And how are you, this fine evening?”

She gives him a strange look and keeps walking. A woman on a mission.

Al, the young moron he is, is embarrassed for himself and feels foolish. But he’s not a young moron that’ll give up easily, no sir. He’ll try again.

And again he tries, and again, and again, and gets shot down every time.

Lena is getting mad, and asks her brother to get Al to stop, but nicely.

Frank tells his sister that he’ll handle it.

Then Al leans down beside Lena and, reaching a whole new level of stupidity, decides to make a crass comment.

“You got a nice ass, honey, an’ I mean it as a compliment. Believe me.”

It’s loud enough for the people at the next table to hear it.

Looking back, the only explanation he has is he was a dumbass at the time, and that’s not enough to warrant forgiveness from Lena.

Lena looks ready to black his eyes, and Maria’s eyes open so wide they almost look round.

Frank is understandably pissed, after all his little sister was just insulted by some waiter, and stands up, chair screeching across the floor.

Al doesn’t realize his mistake. Frank takes a step or two closer and points at him furiously, shoulders shaking.

“Listen here ya little scum, that’s my sister, apologize to her!”

Al makes a gesture that suggests he was joking. Frank doesn’t buy it.

“I ain’t takin’ shit from nobody, apologize.”

The next bit is a little blurry, Al can’t remember what he shouted, nor what Frank shouted, but he knows now that he brought it on himself.

“Why you...” Is the last thing Frank says before he shoves a hand into his pocket.

Looking fit to burst, Frank pulls out a poorly sharpened pocketknife and lunges for Al.

The first slash is a long curve across his face, deep and ragged.

The second is the straight one behind it, not quite as deep but fairly wide.

The third just barely misses Al’s jugular, but it was still ugly and torn.

Al falls down to his knees with a shout and clutches at his neck and face, bleeding everywhere, all over his white shirt, his vest, his tie. Blood is on the knife and Franks fingers, who realizes what he’s done and grabs his sister and his date and runs for the door. Nobody tries to stop them.

There’s blood on the floor too. Other waiters rush over with their towels to help soak it up and to help apply pressure. Al desperately chokes back tears. He doesn’t realize that nobody would be able to see him crying anyway.

Al is rushed to the hospital on Coney Island. He gets 30 stitches. The nurse doesn’t comment when tears drip down his face and off his chin.

Al jerks himself out of his memories, shaking his head hard to try to get rid of them. He rubs his eyes and leans back heavily against the bench.

“I need a nap.”

He stands and leaves for the Beds Through The Ages exhibit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonjour = Hello
> 
> Monsieur = Mister
> 
> Это неприятная мысль. = It is an unpleasant thought.
> 
> xороший сэр. = Good sir.


	5. Eavesdropping never did go smoothly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al and the boys practically beg (Though they won’t stoop so far as to say they were actually begging.) for him and his gang to be colored up like everyone else. Finally one day they get a paint-job, despite McPhee’s ever-present paranoia; Capone and the gang being popular in grey-scale. Several weeks after they finally get what they want, Al gets in a fight, and doesn’t come out of it well. Luckily for him Napoleon is compassionate enough to put up with Al’s grating personality to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the song “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” by Jim Croce about a thousand times and decided I just HAD to make a fic. The reason Al and the boys get made into color (as a plot point) is so everyone can see what happens to Al.
> 
> If anyone is OOC or this reads like a Dick & Jane, this is my second posted fic and I haven’t done much writing in the NATM field. (Disclaimer: I don’t own the song, nor the characters.) (If anything suddenly changes, I had to fix a mistake I missed.)
> 
> MMM! Drama and a bit of backstory from Napoleon’s POV!
> 
> I hope Al and Napoleon don’t seem out of character, I had a difficult time characterizing this chapter well. I’ve been sitting on this chapter a good seven days or more, so I consulted my tarot cards and concluded “Fuck it, I’ll just post it.”
> 
> Know what? If I don’t like this chapter later I‘ll leave it, and a good while later do this whole fic again, but better. I can’t learn if I don’t keep writing.

Napoleon walks down the hallway to the West entrance of the Beds Through The Ages exhibit, but stops when he looks through the doorway.

Al is laying half on his side on one of the beds, and his vest, stick pin, tie, jacket, hat, and belt are laying on an uncomfortable bed near by, shoes off.

He doesn’t look comfortable, his expression is a slight scowl and his hands twitch and curl slightly. He must be having an unpleasant dream.

"Mmmhm... No... I don’t...”

Napoleon hides behind the door frame, even though Al is asleep.

Al rolls fully onto his side and his brows wrinkle more.

“Please... No it’s... I don’t know... Where he is...”

Napoleon wonders who he’s dreaming about, until a minute later Miss Villalobos comes in from the East entrance up to Al, shoes clacking noisily. Now Napoleon won’t be able to see if Al says anything else.

She pats and prods his shoulder until he jerks and sits upright quickly, grasping for something that isn’t there.

“Ugh... Miss Villalobos, what do ya want?”

She scoffs loudly.

“I already told you, you can call me Mariana.”

“Yeah... Do ya need something?”

“Nothing specific, I just wanted to talk. The past while you haven’t said so much as ‘hello’ to me.”

Al gestures to get her to continue.

“So, how have you been?”

“Just fantastic, my neck only burns and throbs with pain now instead of also bleedin’.”

“You poor thing... May I look at them?”

“No.”

“It is because you think I’d get sick? I have seen injuries, I will be fine.”

“No. I just don’t want ya to look at them. Simple as that.”

“It’s because my brother did it, isn’t it?”

Al looks down at his knees.

“I never said that.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it? I am not my brother. I didn’t do this, he did!”

Al leans away slightly.

“I know you didn’t, but Antonio did because of you...”

Mariana’s forehead wrinkles and her eyes glint.

“You’re what, scared of me, because of my brother?”

“No, I’m... Concerned that being around you will be my death sentence.”

Her lips curl.

“You won’t talk to me because of my one hundred pound, lanky brother?”

Al just looks at her.

“Fine!”

Mariana stomps off, the sound echoing down the hallway.

Al watches her leave, and a moment after she’s gone he shivers.

Napoleon pulls his eyebrows together.

Al turns and looks directly at Napoleon, who was leaning more into view than he though he was.

“Get your jollies, Nippy?” His tone is bland.

Napoleon blanches and walks swiftly over to the replica of his bed, stripping off everything needed for a comfortable nap, all but his shirt, breeches, stockings, and the cap he wears under his hat. He feels Al watching his back the whole time.

“How much did ya hear?” There isn’t any bite or threat to the question.

“All of it...”

“And ya didn’t think leavin’ was a good idea?”

“I had planned to sleep. I wasn’t going to forgo it while you had a... Lover’s spat, so to speak.”

Al snorts. “She’s not my lover.”

Napoleon shifts his weight back and forth, folding his jacket and waistcoat.

“Do... Do you want her to be? Or well, did you want her to be, before the incident?”

Al stays silent for a while. Napoleon crawls into his bed.

“I thought about it, right before her brother decided to butcher me... But no, not really.”

Napoleon hums quietly, and hears Al shift around, presumably into his bed.

Napoleon rolls over, facing the room, he cracks his eyes open enough to notice Al is looking at him.

He’d ask if Al needs anything, but he’s tired, and his eyes slide shut before he gets the chance.

_

When Napoleon wakes up, Al is gone. Not a single trace is left of him.

Napoleon gets a faint sensation of emptiness.

He sighs and swings his legs over the edge of the bed and puts his shoes on.

Why, of all people, did he have to long after Alphonse Capone, the man he fights with regularly.

It occurs to him that “fighting” might not be the best way to put it, if they were fighting there would be intentional injuries.

On multiple occasions an elbow or knee would hit a little too hard and the one who threw it would pull away, checking to make sure the other was not seriously hurt.

Once, after they’d been in New York for a while, Napoleon elbowed Al squarely in the nose. Al had shouted and clutched his face and Napoleon immediately backed off, called their match a tie, and checked to make sure he hadn’t broken Al’s nose.

Al had some fierce bruising for a while, but nothing more concerning. Nevertheless Napoleon checked regularly to make sure he was truly fine, and avoided wrestling with Al until the bruises were turning yellow.

On another occasion Al had punched Napoleon in the solar plexus harder than intended. He was aiming for Napoleon’s chest, intending to knock him backwards, but Napoleon had heaved himself forward while trying to grab Al and met his fist mid swing.

It had winded him and brought tears to his eyes. Napoleon staggered back and bent double, gasping and coughing, and shaking and begging for air. Al rushed forward and sat Napoleon on a bench, rubbing his back and chest and apologizing until the trembling stopped and he could finally breathe.

Al really is a gentle, amiable soul, when not upholding a guise.

Al pulled out a handkerchief and wiped Napoleon’s face, his hands lingering and thumbs brushing his cheeks. Napoleon tried so hard to keep from leaning into the touch.

Napoleon feels a dumb grin on his face, damn Alphonse and his gentle hands. He hopes for so much with Al, but he can’t bring himself to ask Al about it.

He straps on his sword belt and buttons his jacket, checking that every medal was still pinned in place, before heading off to one of the art exhibits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No translations needed! What a shock!


	6. Who's that guy?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al and the boys practically beg (Though they won’t stoop so far as to say they were actually begging.) for him and his gang to be colored up like everyone else. Finally one day they get a paint-job, despite McPhee’s ever-present paranoia; Capone and the gang being popular in grey-scale. Several weeks after they finally get what they want, Al gets in a fight, and doesn’t come out of it well. Luckily for him Napoleon is compassionate enough to put up with Al’s grating personality to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the song “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” by Jim Croce about a thousand times and decided I just HAD to make a fic. The reason Al and the boys get made into color (as a plot point) is so everyone can see what happens to Al.
> 
> If anyone is OOC or this reads like a Dick & Jane, this is my second posted fic and I haven’t done much writing in the NATM field. (Disclaimer: I don’t own the song, nor the characters.) (If anything suddenly changes, I had to fix a mistake I missed.)
> 
> I cannot for the life of me write Al’s visceral fear of needles outright, it’s like I can’t actively try to put it down, it turns out better when it happens accidentally. I’m sorry if it’s shitty but I can’t figure out how to fix it. For anyone with a real fear of needles, you probably won’t have much trouble feeling what Al feels.
> 
> I’ve read over this thing so, so, so many times, I don’t think I can do much improvement for now.
> 
> The Plot Bunny struck me! Look how many words I wrote!

“I told you, I don’t know!”

Al has a switchblade to his throat and a handgun raised by his head, ready to strike him.

The smirk on the head honcho’s face is languid, almost obscene. Worse yet is the second switchblade the boss drags up his stomach, chest, and past the blade at his neck, to rest near the corner of his mouth.

“Tell me where they are, and this might end sooner.”

The chair wobbles underneath him, hands bound to the armrests and legs tied so wide his thighs touch the supports for the armrests; he’s fully clothed and yet exposed. He’d rather be exposed by choice. A choice he doesn’t have right now.

He pulls in a deep breath.

“I don’t know.”

His head throbs and blood drips down his temple from his hairline. He’ll get clubbed with the gun again, he knows it.

Even if it means his death, he won’t tell where they are, even if he did know. He’s no sniveling little rat.

The resounding smack of metal-on-flesh-and-bone echoes in the empty building, as does his shout of pain. The switchblade at his throat presses harder, and the blade at his face nicks his lip.

The boss puts one of his feet on the seat of the chair between his legs, sliding it until it’s dangerously close to his bits. The man looms over him, growling.

“You know him the best, where is he, and where is my stuff?”

The boss leans in so close his breath can be smelled, yesterday’s scotch and today’s eggs and hash. He reaches towards the table nearby and picks up a syringe with a massive needle.

Suddenly the pistol-whipping and the knives don’t matter. Al’s heart pounds, and he can almost taste blood. His thighs clench and his vision dims in a sickening, dizzying way. He can’t tell if the room is spinning or if it’s just his head.

“Tell me where he is, and maybe I won’t give you a new piercing.”

As though on cue, the man in question walks from the shadows of the room.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

If it hadn’t been for the needle dangerously close to his face, he would’ve sighed in relief. He ain’t no damsel, but that doesn’t mean he won’t fervently accept and appreciate help. Especially right now.

The man leans up and turns toward the voice, tossing the needle across the room. He sighs, feeling less sick.

“Ah, finally decided to show your face. Do ya have my things? I want them back, you know.”

The three men behind his chair that aren’t currently helping torture him pull out guns and point them towards the half-shadowed figure in the corner.

“No, but you have someone I want back.”

The shadowy man’s eyes rake across his bloody face and nearly-prostrate body, concerned.

“Seems like we’ve reached an impasse.” The crook cocks his head to the side.

“Indeed, but not for long. À présent!”

Several men in suits with various weapons jump in through windows and run in through roll-up doors. The mob boss whips around and shouts at the man with the knife. “Kill him!”

The man who had emerged from the shadows runs forward and knocks the man with the knife away, but not before he’s cut across half of Al’s throat. He grits his teeth in pain as blood drips from the wound, quickly staining his collar.

The struggle doesn’t last long, the mob wasn’t as good as they thought they were. The second all threats are incapacitated or handcuffed, the man rushes back over, yanking his handkerchief out of his pocket and pressing it to his neck.

“Why is it you that always get hurt?” The man asks shakily, pressing their foreheads together.

“I’m good at gettin’ hurt, thankfully you’re good at showing up at the right time...” He glances toward the needle, shaking in his seat.

The man pulls the cloth away to look at the wound. He sighs in relief, leaning his head back and blinking furiously, eyes watery.

“It’s long and wide, but not deep. You’ll need stitches very soon though.”

“Fun... Could ya maybe get out of my lap and untie me, please? I want outta this dump.”

The man pulls out his own blade and cutting his arms free.

“When you’ve gotten better, perhaps we’ll find better things to do with a chair and rope... No needles though, I promise you that.” He cuts the ropes binding his legs.

Al stretches his legs out, leaning forward. With the hand he isn’t using to hold the handkerchief, he pulls the man closer, wrapping himself around him.

“Hospital first. Please come with me.” The man stands and pulls Al out of the chair.

Suddenly there’s an incessant poking at his arm, but nobody on that side of him.

_

Al opens his eyes to the dim lighting of the museum, and to Mariana Villalobo’s face. He jerks upright and grasps around on the bed, feeling like he’s dropped something.

“Ugh... Miss Villalobos, what do ya want?”

She scoffs loudly.

“I already told you, you can call me Mariana.”

“Yeah... Do ya need something?”

“Nothing specific, I just wanted to talk. The past while you haven’t said so much as ‘hello’ to me.”

Al gestures to get her to continue. He can’t think of anything he’d want to talk about with her.

“So, how have you been?”

“Just fantastic, my neck only burns and throbs with pain now instead of also bleedin’.”

“You poor thing... May I look at them?”

“No.”

“It is because you think I’d get sick? I have seen injuries, I will be fine.”

“No. I just don’t want ya to look at them. Simple as that.”

“It’s because my brother did it, isn’t it?”

Al looks down at his knees. He doesn’t want her to be upset.

“I never said that.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it? I am not my brother. I didn’t do this, he did!”

Al leans away slightly, eyes wide.

“I know you didn’t, but Antonio did because of you...”

Mariana’s forehead wrinkles and her eyes glint. Al clenches his fist in the quilt.

“You’re what, scared of me, because of my brother?”

“No, I’m... Concerned that being around you will be my death sentence.”

Her lips curl.

“You won’t talk to me because of my one hundred pound, lanky brother?”

Al stares at her, silently asking her to understand.

“Fine!”

Mariana stomps off, the sound echoing down the hallway. He watches her leave.

Al gets the sensation he’s being watched and shivers, and looks towards the other entrance. Napoleon stands halfway through it, looking lost and worried.

“Get your jollies, Nippy?” His says blandly, tiredly.

Napoleon blanches and walks swiftly over to the replica of his bed, stripping off everything needed for a comfortable nap; all but his shirt, breeches, stockings, and cap. Al watches his back intently.

“How much did ya hear?” Scaring Napoleon off would only serve to make tomorrow’s bandage change awkward and annoying, so he goes for a soft approach.

“All of it...”

“And ya didn’t think leavin’ was a good idea?”

“I had planned to sleep. I wasn’t going to forgo it while you had a... Lover’s spat, so to speak.”

Al snorts and shakes his head. “She’s not my lover.”

Napoleon shifts his weight back and forth, folding his clothes. Al notices the little sway in his hips, before mentally choking and looking away. He studies the big curtains and the tasseled ties on Napoleon’s bed intently. Anything to not make the same mistake twice.

“Do... Do you want her to be? Or rather, did you want her to be, before the incident?”

Al doesn’t answer, partially because he’s focusing on anything but Napoleon, partially because he doesn’t know. Napoleon crawls into his bed. Finally he makes up his mind.

“I thought about it, right before her brother decided to butcher me... But no, not really.”

Napoleon hums quietly. Al pulls the covers loose, shucking his button-up and pants before sliding in.

He rolls over, facing Napoleon’s bed. Napoleon’s eyes crack open a bit and Al has the feeling he knows he’s being looked at.

Al almost asks what is so appealing about a bigass, red velvet four posted monstrosity, but Napoleon’s eyes slide shut and his breathing becomes barely noticeable before he gets the chance.

He lies there, thinking about his dream, and glancing at Napoleon. Ever since his new slashing he’s had several similar dreams.

In one he’s going up to a guillotine when a musketeer style rescuer comes and helps him, but he almost gets beheaded anyway when the executioner swings a huge axe at him and gets cut. The rescuer wounds the executioner with a long sabre and turns to him, babbling something romantic or funny in another language.

He and the guy get into each other’s personal space and nuzzle. A promise is made and they flee together, heading for a barn on a hillside.

That dream was interrupted with Rexy roaring so loudly the paintings on the walls rattled.

In another dream he’s trapped in a mud hut somewhere with pissed off dudes. They poke and prod at him for a while, before dragging him from the building and lashing him to a tree. Before the tallest guy in the group can stab him a small group of equally pissed off people run out of the bushes, attacking.

The tall guy makes a swift slash at him but barely cuts him open. The guy is apprehended and put in a hut away from everyone.

The shortest man of the group runs over and unties him, clutching his face and breathing heavily. “You’re an idiot, we told you not to go alone.” is all Al can remember him saying. Mostly because it was in an accent.

Al wraps his arms around the man, accidentally getting blood all over him.

That dream was interrupted by one of his men waking him up, insisting something really cool was happening.

There’s been a running theme, Al getting whittled on, a mostly unrecognizable savior, and Al and the savior being in some kind of relationship.

He’s been thinking and thinking, trying to figure out what the dreams could mean, and why he’s in a relationship with some guy in his dreams.

It seems so normal in the dream, to be all up on the guy. Al’s face heats up and his skin tingles. The things his friends might say to him, might do to him, if they found out about it.

He knows that it’s a more accepting time, but that doesn’t mean his men are more accepting. Al grinds his teeth, white-knuckling the sheets.

Napoleon turning onto his stomach snaps Al out of his thoughts.

Napoleon’s fingers curl up beside his pillow. He grunts and groans, shifting around.

Al almost zones out again when Napoleon moans quietly in his sleep. Al blinks several times and rolls onto his back.

Napoleon groans again before going quiet, and Al can’t decide if it sounded more amused or giddy. 

Al sighs and closes his eyes, and falls asleep.

_

Al blinks his eyes open to a French soldier with a bushy mustache.

If it was actually possible to jump out of your skin, Al might’ve managed it.

“What the Hell man! Don’t just lean over someone while they’re sleeping!”

The soldier shushes him hurriedly.

“Please, you’ll wake up Général Bonaparte!”

“Alright, good God man... Do ya need somethin’.... Clive, was it?”

“Claude, sir. Lieutenant Claude Léonide Travere.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard a weirder name.”

“I could say the same about yours.”

“Touché. Do ya need anything?”

“What? Oh! Yes of course, please, follow me.”

“Can I get dressed first? I don’t really wanna be walkin’ around in front of everybody in nothin’ but my union suit.”

“Yes, in fact I think everyone would prefer it. I’ll wait outside, for your comfort.”

After struggling for a minute or two, Al finally gets his shirt tucked into his pants, and the rest of his clothes go on without a fuss.

“So, Claude, where are we goin’ and what’s goin’ on?”

“A few of your men got into an argument with some French soldiers in the lobby, and it turned violent. Your second-in-command, Frankie, was part of the fight, leaving you the only one of your men fit to judge the situation.”

Al sighs loudly.

“Great, I wonder what stupid thing they were fightin’ about...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> À présent! = Now!
> 
> Général = General
> 
> Touché = I think we all just _know _.__


	7. Sainte-Hélène.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al and the boys practically beg (Though they won’t stoop so far as to say they were actually begging.) for him and his gang to be colored up like everyone else. Finally one day they get a paint-job, despite McPhee’s ever-present paranoia; Capone and the gang being popular in grey-scale. Several weeks after they finally get what they want, Al gets in a fight, and doesn’t come out of it well. Luckily for him Napoleon is compassionate enough to put up with Al’s grating personality to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the song “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” by Jim Croce about a thousand times and decided I just HAD to make a fic. The reason Al and the boys get made into color (as a plot point) is so everyone can see what happens to Al.
> 
> If anyone is OOC or this reads like a Dick & Jane, this is my second posted fic and I haven’t done much writing in the NATM field. (Disclaimer: I don’t own the song, nor the characters.) (If anything suddenly changes, I had to fix a mistake I missed.)
> 
> ANGST ALERT ANGST ALERT, SOB TIME.

Al and Claude enter the lobby. Two groups huddle on either side of the room, and British soldiers stand in the middle, creating a wall. Larry stands at the information desk, eyeing the two groups. You could cut the tension with a knife.

Al sighs and rubs his eyes.

“Alright Stache’, come on.”

Al practically drags Claude over to the information desk.

“Slim, what happened?”

Larry picks at the corner of his book, staring at the French soldiers, who don’t look happy to be in the same room as two groups they think of as enemies.

“I heard yelling and ran back here to find them mid-brawl. Your guess is as good as mine as to why they were fighting.”

“Damn idiots, always raring to fight... Claude, you talk to your men, I’ll talk to mine, and we’ll compare stories.”

Claude marches over to his men, and presumably orders them to relax and stand up straight. They still give the British and Al’s men dirty looks, though.

Al is pretty sure Frankie would go off and Ralph would babble, so he’ll start with someone else.

“Hey Tony, come here a minute.”

Tony stares at the French soldiers as he walks over.

“Tony, what the Hell happened here?”

“Well... Umh...”

“Tony, whatever it is, you gotta tell me. We don’t need some kind of all out war with the French guys, alright.”

Tony grimaces and picks at his shirtsleeve.

“Ah, I wasn’t paying attention to everything... Talk to Frankie, maybe.”

Al rolls his eyes. He doesn’t know how Tony manages to be both secretive and gabby at the same time.

“Go sit down, send Johnny back.”

Tony slinks away like some kind of gumshoe and Johnny walks up. Al gives him a questioning look.

“All I know is a fight started and I joined in.”

Al digs his nails into his palm.

“Fine, sit down and tell Ralph to get over here.”

Ralph, per usual, immediately starts shooting his mouth off.

“Listen boss, it wasn’t my idea, someone else started it! I didn’t mean anything I said, it was the heat of the moment! It’s not my fault Frankie decided to poke the Frenchies about Napoleon-”

“Ralph, Ralph! Shut up, relax!”

Ralph clenches his hands and stand up straighter.

“Sorry boss...”

“It’s alright, Ralph, now what happened- Put it simply.”

“Uh... So we were sitting around in the lobby, talking and laughing, the normal. Then the French soldiers walk in, staring at us, sneering, babbling in French, ya know...”

Al motions for him to carry on.

“Frankie made some comment about Napoleon, I wasn’t listening so I didn’t catch it. Whatever it was it pissed the French off. Next thing I know we’re beating each other...”

“Frankie started it, great... Go send him over.”

Ralph draws his shoulders up under the gaze of the French, and points Frankie over to Al.

Frankie marches up, head high, hands in his pockets. The poster boy for defiance. Al almost wants to slap that smirk off his face.

“It wasn’t my fault, they started it.”

“Ya sure about that? Ralph says otherwise, Frankie.”

“You know Ralph, can’t tell a cow from a cat.”

“Hey now, Frank, Ralph might be a little scatterbrained, but he knows what he saw. Now, what did you tell the French?”

Frankie leans his head back and crosses his arms.

“Why do ya care, Snorky? You’ve hated the French since the Smithsonian.”

“Maybe I’m changing my mind about em’. Spill!”

“Maybe I don’t want to spill, see ya later, Al.”

Frankie turns and walks a few steps away.

“Oh by the way Frank,-” Frankie turns to looks at Al. “-don’t call me Snorky.”

Frankie’s face drops but he doesn’t say anything, he just walks away with his head down.

Claude sneaks up beside Al, and makes him jump a little.

“Well, what did you get out of em’, Claude?”

“They won’t tell me what was said, only that your men started it.”

“Mine won’t spill anything either, but I have a feeling this is all wrapped around Napoleon.”

Speaking of Napoleon, he walks through the door. Al jogs over and grabs him by the arm, pulling him out of the room towards the night guard office.

“Wha- Capone!”

Al doesn’t release Napoleon’s arm until the office door is closed and locked.

“What was happening out there, Capone? Why did Frank look so upset?”

“Well... It was a fight.”

Napoleon’s face wrinkles up more than Al has ever seen. It was cute, if Al admitted it to himself.

“Fight? Who started it? Why did it happen?”

Al lays his hand on Napoleon’s shoulder, to get him to shut up.

"Ni- Uh, Napoleon, let’s not talk about it.”

Napoleon’s face smooths out, his eyes wide.

“Alphonse... When do you ever call me ‘Napoleon’? To my face?”

Al feels his face heat up and by the slight crinkle in the corners on Napoleon’s eyes, he’s turning red too. Damn himself, and Napoleon too.

“Shut up. Just shut up.”

There it is, that infinitely glowy smile, all tooth and joy. Damn if he isn’t turning redder.

“I might, for a price...”

“Do I want to ask?”

Napoleon’s done it, he’s struck the nail on the head, finished him off, with that stupid, stupidly cute little giggle; the Goddamn one where his cheeks nearly force his eyes closed, and you can see him bite the tip of his tongue.

If Al had any less self-control, he’d cave right here. Say “Whatever you want, I’d do anything. _Anything. _” A faint thought of him pinning Napoleon to the wall crosses his mind.__

____

____

Luckily he yanks himself together in time to hear whatever Napoleon has in mind.

“Walk with me, let me tell you about the art from my time.”

Al stands there like a dope, glancing around the room, seeing if he has any fanatical excuse to say no. He wasn’t going to say no anyway, but it made him feel better about himself.

“Fine. But no three hour spiel on one painting alone.”

“You have a deal, Alphonse.”

_

It wasn’t nearly as boring as he thought it might be. Napoleon told stories of kings and queens, myths of dragons and the French Revolution. Al doesn’t think about the quiet steps behind him. He know who it is, and he plans to make him leave them alone for a few minutes.

Al muses about what his life would’ve been like during Napoleon’s time between paintings. Mid-thought about what kind of clothing he’d have to wear, he runs into Napoleon’s back.

The painting they’re looking at now is of a familiar figure standing on a hill, facing the ocean, framed by blue sky. Al would’ve said it was “Poetic” or some shit if it hadn’t been for Napoleon’s shoulders shaking a little in front of him.

Napoleon’s inhale was shakier than his shoulders.

“Me on Sainte-Hélène, by Fran Josef Sandmann in 1820, roughly one year before...”

Al lays his hand on Napoleon’s shoulder squeezing gently.

Napoleon swallows thickly, trying to steady himself.

“Roughly one year before I died...”

Napoleon shifts to move on to the next painting, when he notices just which one it is, the one of himself on his deathbed. He jerks and bends over, choking on a sob.

Al just barely manages to keep him from falling over. He pulls Napoleon around the corner, where he couldn’t see the painting.

Napoleon practically sits in Al’s lap when they get to a bench.

Napoleon looks Al in the eyes, his face red and scrunched up, tears running down his face. His Adam’s apple bobs several times and he chews his lip, like he’s trying to think of something to say.

All Napoleon manages is a depressing moan before he buries his head in the gap between Al’s neck and shoulders. Al takes both his and Napoleon’s hats off, intending to run his fingers through Napoleon’s hair, but he’s got a fabric cap covering his hair.

Absently Al wonders why he’s wearing a cap under his hat. Maybe it’s to keep his hat from getting sweaty.

Napoleon squeaks out this pathetic little sob and Al forgets about the cap, and squeezes Napoleon tight, rubbing his back.

There’ll probably be wrinkles in the back of his jacket, the way Napoleon’s hands are clenching the fabric, but Napoleon is more important than something that can be steamed.

Frankie leans around the corner. Al regrettably locks eyes with him.

Al can’t read Frankie’s expression, he almost looks sick, but he also looks a little depressed.

Napoleon lurches, slamming Al back into the wall.

“Sorry, I’m sorry...”

Al pats his back.

“It’s okay, Napoleon.”

Napoleon practically wails at that, and Al squeezes him tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I know there isn't anything needing translated, woohoo!


	8. You are what you dream.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al and the boys practically beg (Though they won’t stoop so far as to say they were actually begging.) for him and his gang to be colored up like everyone else. Finally one day they get a paint-job, despite McPhee’s ever-present paranoia; Capone and the gang being popular in grey-scale. Several weeks after they finally get what they want, Al gets in a fight, and doesn’t come out of it well. Luckily for him Napoleon is compassionate enough to put up with Al’s grating personality to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the song “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” by Jim Croce about a thousand times and decided I just HAD to make a fic. The reason Al and the boys get made into color (as a plot point) is so everyone can see what happens to Al.
> 
> If anyone is OOC or this reads like a Dick & Jane, this is my second posted fic and I haven’t done much writing in the NATM field. (Disclaimer: I don’t own the song, nor the characters.) (If anything suddenly changes, I had to fix a mistake I missed.)
> 
> I hope this doesn’t seem sterile, I wrote this chapter while fully rested instead of slightly tired.

Al shifts under Napoleon’s weight.

“Hey Napoleon, this bench is really hard. Can we go somewhere more comfortable?”

Napoleon leans back enough to give Al a little nod before standing up, tears streaming down his face.

Al gives Frankie a pointed “We’ll talk later, okay?” look before checking his watch. Two forty-three AM, that gives Al roughly three and a half hours before he has to make sure both he and Napoleon are up to snuff for morning.

Al grabs their hats with one hand and drapes the other arm around Napoleon’s shoulders, leading them off to the Beds Through The Ages exhibit.

_

Al shoves the big curtains out of the way and hangs up their hats, before pushing Napoleon to sit down on the bed. He looks miserable.

“You don’t have to do anything for me, you know.”

“Who’re you kidding, Napoleon? You change my bandages, you insist on reminding me you need to change my bandages, you check in on me, this is the least I could do.”

Napoleon’s bottom lip quivers before he chews on it. Al assumes he’s trying to not start bawling again.

Al fumbles while pulling off Napoleon’s boots, and it takes him a minute to open all of those brass buttons on his jacket and waistcoat-vest-thing, and find the tiny buckle on his neckwear.

“I hope you won’t strip me nude, it’s bad enough I’m baring my emotions...”

Al can’t help but chuckle at that. He sits down on the bed next to him and takes off his own shoes, jacket, vest and tie.

“I wasn’t planning on it. I’ll let you take the sword off.”

Al pulls off his own belt and takes Napoleon’s out of his hand, setting them by their shoes.

Al shifts back to lay down on the bed, and pulls Napoleon by the shoulder to lay down next to him.

Napoleon picks at his thumb quietly.

“Why here?”

“Hmm?”

“Why here, why not the office couch?”

Al does his best to will away the warmth in his face.

“I figured your bed would be relaxing... Remind you of something good.”

A few tears roll down Napoleon’s temple, and he rolls over and lays his head on Al’s shoulder. Al figures if he really wants to know about the cap, now would be the time to ask.

“Uhh, so... What’s the cap for?”

Napoleon sniffles and cracks a tiny little smile at that.

“It would be easier to show you.”

He props himself up on his elbow, pulls the string on the cap, and takes it off.

Al won’t admit out loud that he squeaked a little.

Dark, dark brown, almost black hair falls down, just touching Napoleon’s shoulders.

“It is a long story.”

Al barely contains his grin.

“Alright. Now lay back down, why don’t ya?”

Al, not so smoothly, manages to walk his fingers up Napoleon’s shoulder and into his hair. He’d have to go without pomade a few days, to remember what his own hair felt like.

Napoleon shaking again derailed his train of thought.

“Hey hey, it’s okay, alright? You’re here now.”

That didn’t help, he sniffed hard and buried his face in Al’s arm.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Napoleon nodded a little but kept shaking, it was enough to make the bed creak.

“I was a fool... I should’ve stopped while I was ahead, but no, I kept telling myself and my advisers and my soldiers ‘Just a little more, a little more’.”

“By the time I realized my mistake my soldiers were knee deep in mud and sludge in the middle of that Godforsaken field in Belgium. There was no turning back from it, or I would’ve been seen as a coward...”

Napoleon whimpers, and Al rubs the back of his head.

“I was sent to two separate islands for exile, and...”

Napoleon bit his own hand to keep from outright sobbing.

Al carefully rolls over and wraps himself around Napoleon.

“You made some mistakes, everyone does. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

The shaking slowly subsides, and Napoleon goes silent. Al looks down at him and finds he’s asleep.

“Good thing I got us down to comfortable clothes...” Al murmurs to himself.

Al shifts carefully and manages to close the bottom half of the curtains with his foot, and the top half with his free arm, before falling asleep.

Al wakes up with a hundred-and-forty-something pound Napoleon on his chest. He doesn’t really mind, but initially it was a little shocking, since he’s used to the person in bed with him being smaller.

Al checks his watch. Four fifty-seven, one hour before he has to make sure they’re up.

He knows that he’ll fall asleep again if he doesn’t get Napoleon off of him. It’s a shame really.

“Hey, hey Napoleon... Napoleon we’ve gotta get ready for sunrise.”

Al pokes and pats his arm, and all he gets back is a deep snore.

“Damnit... Napoleon, come on, get up.”

He tries to push Napoleon off, but with his other arm pinned he can’t get the leverage.

Al does, however, manage to roll over with Napoleon until he’s the one on top.

“I know...” Al mumbles, while poking Napoleon in the stomach.

Napoleon grunts. He’s on the right track.

One particularly good jab wakes him up.

“Damn ... Pudite micca quì.“

“Get up, it’s an hour till sunrise.”

“Ugh... Fine... And I was warm too, with you here...”

They put on their clothes silently and leave the exhibit hall.

“Alphonse I... Thank you.”

“Happy to help, Napoleon.”

They make their separate ways, and Al gets into position in his exhibit. Napoleon and his troops march by.

“À présent! Mettez-vous en position, les hommes! Le lever du soleil est sur nous!“

Al suddenly remembers his dreams, with a mysterious man with an accent. He remembers the man yelling “À présent!” and a bunch of men coming in to help.

Shit. Oh shit shit shit.

The man in his dreams is _Napoleon _. It’s Napoleon, and it’s almost sunrise and Al feels like he’s about to fall over. He can’t look panic-stricken when the sun rises.__

__Al slaps himself a few times and makes an effort to look normal just as the sun comes up._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations, according to google:
> 
> Pudite micca quì. = Please stop that.
> 
> À présent! Mettez-vous en position, les hommes! Le lever du soleil est sur nous! = Now! Get into position, men! Sunrise is upon us!


	9. Revelation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Al and the boys practically beg (Though they won’t stoop so far as to say they were actually begging.) for him and his gang to be colored up like everyone else. Finally one day they get a paint-job, despite McPhee’s ever-present paranoia; Capone and the gang being popular in grey-scale. Several weeks after they finally get what they want, Al gets in a fight, and doesn’t come out of it well. Luckily for him Napoleon is compassionate enough to put up with Al’s grating personality to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the song “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” by Jim Croce about a thousand times and decided I just HAD to make a fic. The reason Al and the boys get made into color (as a plot point) is so everyone can see what happens to Al.
> 
> If anyone is OOC or this reads like a Dick & Jane, this is my second posted fic and I haven’t done much writing in the NATM field. (Disclaimer: I don’t own the song, nor the characters.) (If anything suddenly changes, I had to fix a mistake I missed.)

When his vision clears and he can finally move he’s face-down on the floor. He must’ve fallen over while he was waking up.

Oh.

Oh right. Napoleon.

His men gather around him.

“Boss, boss are you okay?”

“Hey Snorky, you alright?”

“Al, what-”

Al stands up a little faster than intended, knocking most of his men out of the way.

“I’m fine! I’m just fine!”

Al dusts himself off and picks up his hat, walking towards the door.

“Are you sure you’re fine, Sn- Uh... Al?”

Al sighs inwardly.

“I’m sure I’m fine, Frank.”

Al sticks his hat on his head and turns the corner, heading for the office.

“So, Napoleon huh? Of every person available, Napoleon?” Al asks himself.

Al thinks back to all the sudden urges that he got while around Napoleon. The urges he chalked up to lingering hatred from the Smithsonian that he didn’t really feel. Chalked up to loneliness.

He wonders what else he ignored, played off as a cruel joke his brain was playing.

God forbid he wasn’t actually in love with Mae.

Al stops and leans against a wall for a moment, shaking his head hard.

He pushes off of the wall and jogs the rest of the way to the office, closing the door behind him. He beat Napoleon here, thank God.

He flops down on the couch, rubbing his temples.

Al knows he loved Mae. Knows it for a fact.

“Why am I doubting myself...” Al sighs and leans his head on the backrest.

The door creaks open and Napoleon steps in, he locks the door. Al jerks and stands up too fast, and his vision momentarily goes black.

“Goddamn...”

Napoleon snorts a little.

“Stand too fast, Alphonse?”

Al half walks, half staggers over to the desk and hops up on it.

Napoleon pulls the first aid kit out of the cabinet and sets it on the desk next to Al. Al slowly peels the latex off. Napoleon wets a cotton ball with alcohol and starts cleaning the wounds.

“Alphonse, I have a question.”

“What?”

“Well, remember when Antonio... And we brought you back here, and you wanted me to describe your wounds?”

“Yeah...?”

“And after I did, you said ‘Not again, caro Dio non ancora‘?”

“Uh, yeah... What about it?”

Napoleon finishes cleaning and quietly tapes bandages over the cuts.

“I’d like to know what you meant.”

Al’s gut clenches.

“Can’t you ask Slim? Or read my exhibit?”

Napoleon sighs and doesn’t make eye contact.

“I wanted to hear your version of it... I... I already looked you up...”

“I- What? You what?”

“I got curious and looked you up not long after that... I should’ve asked you, my apologies.”

“Nah it’s fine... Just fine. See ya later Napoleon.”

Al slides off the desk and walks to the door, and tries to open it.

“It’s locked, Alphonse.”

“I know!”

Al unlocks the door and yanks it open before slamming it behind himself. He jogs off down the hallway intending to look for Larry.

Three hallways down Frankie shows up.

“Frankie, listen, we need to talk but it has to wait.”

“I was hoping you’d wanna talk, but I was hoping it would be now... Whatever you’ve got is more important.”

“Thanks for understanding, Frank. How about the Botanical Garden at eight thirty?”

“That works.”

_

Al finally finds Larry on the second story.

“Slim I’ve got... I’ve got questions, can we talk?”

Larry’s eyes bug out a bit, but he motions to an empty conference room.

“Sure, Al. How about in there?”

“Yeah, that’ll work.”

Larry locks the door behind them and sits down on the table.

“So...-” Larry chuckles a little. “What’s troubling ya, buddy?”

Al jumps up on the table next to him. He picks at some fuzz on the knee of his pants.

“Well... What if... What if I don’t like _just _women?”__

__Larry scratches his brow._ _

__“Okay, so what if you don’t just like women, what about it?”_ _

__“You do know what I’m saying, right?”_ _

__“Yeah, that you like guys too.”_ _

__Al stares at Larry._ _

__“So... You’re just going to sit there, quiet and understanding? No reaction?”_ _

__“Yeah. What did you expect? Did you want me to yell, call you names, and throw things at you?”_ _

__“I, well... I didn’t _want _that, but... Oh I don’t know!”___ _

____Larry lays a hand on Al’s arm._ _ _ _

____“Al, whatever’s rattling around in your head, the little part of your brain that thought of that is lying to you. I mean, look at the dioramas alone, you’ve got Romans, who are experts in the field of boyfriends.”_ _ _ _

____“Yeah sure, but how am I supposed to deal with this? I’m not an ‘expert in boyfriends’.”_ _ _ _

____“That’s not my point, Al. My point is that you’re not an ostrich among geese.”_ _ _ _

____Al sighs._ _ _ _

____“Larry, why is it most of me is okay with this, but a little part of me doesn’t want it to be true?”_ _ _ _

____“When were you born?”_ _ _ _

____“January 17, 1899.”_ _ _ _

____“And what was the opinion drilled into your head since childhood?”_ _ _ _

____“That liking the same sex was damnable and fit for punishment, either by beating, death, or lock-up.”_ _ _ _

____Larry motions for him to continue. Al guesses Larry wants him to come to it on his own._ _ _ _

____"And that’s why that little part of me wants it to not be true.”_ _ _ _

____“Now, what’s the best way to prove that little part wrong?”_ _ _ _

____Al sighs at him._ _ _ _

____“Accept who I am?”_ _ _ _

____“There you go.”_ _ _ _

____They sit in silence a moment, before Larry slides off the table and re-tucks the back of his shirt._ _ _ _

____“Larry.”_ _ _ _

____“Yeah, Al?”_ _ _ _

____“Thank you.”_ _ _ _

____Larry gives Al a nod, and unlocks the door._ _ _ _

____“I’m gonna go, see you later, Al.”_ _ _ _

____Al gives him a wave and slides off the table._ _ _ _

______ _ _ _

____Al shows up to the Botanical Garden ten minutes early. Frankie is already there, pacing._ _ _ _

____Al sighs. He wonders if Frankie will talk, or if he’ll go off. There is only one way to find out. Al walks in and weaves around the plants until he’s in the little “cove” Frankie is standing in._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> caro Dio non ancora. = Dear God not again.


	10. You don’t mess around with Al. (Or Napoleon.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al and the boys practically beg (Though they won’t stoop so far as to say they were actually begging.) for him and his gang to be colored up like everyone else. Finally one day they get a paint-job, despite McPhee’s ever-present paranoia; Capone and the gang being popular in grey-scale. Several weeks after they finally get what they want, Al gets in a fight, and doesn’t come out of it well. Luckily for him Napoleon is compassionate enough to put up with Al’s grating personality to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the song “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” by Jim Croce about a thousand times and decided I just HAD to make a fic. The reason Al and the boys get made into color (as a plot point) is so everyone can see what happens to Al.
> 
> If anyone is OOC or this reads like a Dick & Jane, this is my second posted fic and I haven’t done much writing in the NATM field. (Disclaimer: I don’t own the song, nor the characters.) (If anything suddenly changes, I had to fix a mistake I missed.)
> 
> The title of this chapter is from the song “You Don’t Mess Around With Jim” by Jim Croce.
> 
> I’m not sure why I didn’t manage 1,000 words, but this is as far as I got before I felt like I was done!

Al and Frankie stare at each other.

“So Boss...”

Al blows air and flops down on one end of the bench.

“Yeah... Well, you start. What did you tell the French soldiers?”

Frankie sits down on the other end of the bench.

“We’re on that again?”

“Yes, Frank, we’re on that again. I want to know what you said.”

Frankie sighs and rubs his eyes.

“Fine, it wasn’t my proudest moment. Can we leave it at that?”

“No, Frank, we can’t. You could’ve gotten hurt, you could’ve gotten one of the fellas hurt, you could’ve hurt one of the soldiers...”

“Al, why the Hell do you care about them soldiers?”

“They’re people of the museum too, Frankie, am I supposed to say they’re lesser or somethin'?”

“Alright, that was a stupid question... I have more questions for ya though.”

“Ask away.”

Frankie clenches and opens his hands several times.

“What’s with... Y’know, you and Napoleon, anyway?”

“I’m not followin’ ya, Frank.”

“You and Napoleon! Walkin’ around, talkin’, all buddy buddy, what’s with you and Napoleon?”

Al blanks. What would he even call Napoleon? His friend? Something else?

Al hangs over “Something else” until Frankie waves a hand in front of his face.

“I don’t know, Frankie, he’s my... Friend?”

Frankie clenches his fist so hard his knuckles turn white.

“Is he _really _your friend, Al?”__

__Al snorts._ _

__“Yes. What else could he be?”_ _

__“You don’t see what he’s doing, do ya?”_ _

__“Fine I’ll play along, what is he doing?”_ _

__“Worming in, that’s what he’s doing. He’s getting in on your good side. Soon he’ll be in the gang, then he’ll rise in the ranks. You’ll think he’s so great you’ll have him take my place, and I’ll be sittin’ in the lobby doing Napoleon’s paperwork!”_ _

__Suddenly it starts coming together. The fight in the lobby, Frankie sneaking around. Al is sure he’s got most of it figured out._ _

__“Frank... Are you tellin’ me you’re worried you’ll be replaced?”_ _

__“I’m already being replaced! He’s changing your bandages, he’s being all nice, and you like it!”_ _

__Frankie jumps up and looms over Al, like he’s scary or something._ _

__“Frankie, are you jealous of Napoleon?"_ _

__“I am _not _jealous of that short little bastard!”___ _

____Al shoves Frankie back and stands up._ _ _ _

____“Hey now, don’t go insulting him in front of me. You’re not being replaced by Napoleon.”_ _ _ _

____“Yeah but- What?”_ _ _ _

____“You’re not being replaced. You’re not being replaced as my right-hand man and you’re not being replaced as my friend.”_ _ _ _

____“I’m not?”_ _ _ _

____“No, ya big dummy. You’re not.”_ _ _ _

____Frankie’s mouth gapes open like a trout. Al chuckles and yanks him in by the shoulder for a quick hug._ _ _ _

____Frankie sniffs._ _ _ _

____“Uh, Al? Can I-” Frankie swallows hard. “Can I call you Snorky again?”_ _ _ _

____“Of course."_ _ _ _

____They’re silent for a moment before Frankie coughs._ _ _ _

____“I told the soldiers that ‘Napoleon is like a harlot, wreckin’ my family’.”_ _ _ _

____Al sighs inwardly and digs his nails into his palm._ _ _ _

____“Apologize.”_ _ _ _

______ _ _ _

____Al and the gang stand at the front of the crowd as Frankie climbs up on the information desk in the lobby, glancing around at everyone._ _ _ _

____The French soldiers and Napoleon stand right behind Al and the fellas. The miniatures have gathered on plants and other places they can’t be stepped on._ _ _ _

____The British soldiers stand off to the side, away from the French. The Civil War soldiers huddle together to the other side. Most of the other exhibits fill the gaps. Teddy and Sacagawea stand together. Lewis and Clark are fiddling with something and grinning at each other._ _ _ _

____Ahk stands on one of the staircases, the Puritans all group on the other staircase, and more people huddle in the hallways and on the balcony to get sight of what’s happening._ _ _ _

____Frankie's hands shake at his sides and he looks down at his shoes._ _ _ _

____Larry walks up in front of the desk and raises his hands for quiet._ _ _ _

____“As everyone knows, a fight broke out here in the lobby between a group of French soldiers and Al’s gangsters. Frankie here started it and he’s here to apologize for it.”_ _ _ _

____The crowd murmurs but quiets down quickly._ _ _ _

____“I think we’ll start with what he said, just so everyone knows.”_ _ _ _

____Larry turns around and looks up at Frankie, who stands there dumbly, staring at the crowd._ _ _ _

____"Uhm...” Frankie looks at Al, pleading with his eyes. Al motions for him to go on._ _ _ _

____“I... I told the soldiers ‘Napoleon is like a harlot, wrecking my family’.”_ _ _ _

____Gasps of shock and anger go through the crowd. Several things go whizzing through the air towards Frankie, including a full musket ball bag and a few sticks._ _ _ _

____Frankie gets hit in the face with a pack of cards and almost falls off of the desk backwards._ _ _ _

____Larry spins around and chastises everyone who threw something._ _ _ _

____“Okay, now that we’re not going to throw things, I think it’s time for Frankie to explain why he said that to the soldiers, and apologize.”_ _ _ _

____Larry faces Frankie again._ _ _ _

____“I... Don’t want to tell em that...”_ _ _ _

____Al catches Larry giving him a glare reminiscent of an angry mother._ _ _ _

____“Fine! I said that because I thought I’d be replaced by Napoleon as Al’s friend and right-hand man. That’s no excuse.”_ _ _ _

____Larry motions for him to go on._ _ _ _

____Frankie stares imploringly at the French soldiers and Napoleon._ _ _ _

____“I didn’t mean what I said, I was angry and worried, and... And jealous. I’m sorry. I should’ve talked with Al, should’ve talked with Napoleon, but I bottled it up until I snapped. I am sorry.”_ _ _ _

____Napoleon bumps into Al’s shoulder as he shuffles by to stand in front of Frankie._ _ _ _

____“I accept your apology, on one condition.”_ _ _ _

____“Anything.”_ _ _ _

____“Be a French soldier tomorrow night. Wear the uniform, do the marches, everything. I’ll put you under Lieutenant Travere’s group.”_ _ _ _

____“Deal.”_ _ _ _

____Frankie slides down off of the desk and shakes Napoleon’s hand._ _ _ _


	11. Cher soldat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al and the boys practically beg (Though they won’t stoop so far as to say they were actually begging.) for him and his gang to be colored up like everyone else. Finally one day they get a paint-job, despite McPhee’s ever-present paranoia; Capone and the gang being popular in grey-scale. Several weeks after they finally get what they want, Al gets in a fight, and doesn’t come out of it well. Luckily for him Napoleon is compassionate enough to put up with Al’s grating personality to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the song “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” by Jim Croce about a thousand times and decided I just HAD to make a fic. The reason Al and the boys get made into color (as a plot point) is so everyone can see what happens to Al.
> 
> If anyone is OOC or this reads like a Dick & Jane, this is my second posted fic and I haven’t done much writing in the NATM field. (Disclaimer: I don’t own the song, nor the characters.) (If anything suddenly changes, I had to fix a mistake I missed.)
> 
> The title’s translation is “Dear soldier.”
> 
> I’m sorry it took so so long to update but I lost my motivation there for a bit, and I finally forced myself to finish this chapter and begin on the next one!
> 
> I proofread this thing what feels like five times and I’m honestly so done with it, just message me/comment if you notice any mistakes.

Napoleon leaves the office next to Al, and makes his way to the usual meeting room.

_

Napoleon had planned to meet with Frankie and Claude in the meeting room at seven, one hour before the meeting is to take place.

Napoleon and Claude find Frankie there, sitting on a stool and down to some kind of bodysuit at six forty-five.

“Set the trunk there, and return at eight.”

The trunk thunks when it hits the floor, and the soldiers march out and off down the hall.

Claude opens the trunk and pulls out a shirt. Frankie snatches it from him.

“What’s with you French and puffy shirts, anyway?”

“Frankie, if you had been in Italy during our time, you would be wearing a shirt five times as billowy as this, count yourself lucky.”

Frankie snorts.

“If you say so, Napoleon.”

He bunches it up and almost puts it over his head before Claude manages to stop him.

“Wait, take off the... Whatever that is you have on.”

Frankie’s eyes widen.

“Are you kiddin’? You want me to take off my union suit?”

“Oh, so that’s what Al was talking about... Yes.”

Frankie stares at Claude like he’s turned green.

“But... I’ll be naked...”

Claude glances over at Napoleon and visibly bites his cheek.

“Not after you put the shirt on.”

“So you go around commando all day, every day?”

Napoleon grins when Claude makes a confused noise.

“Just take it off.”

Frankie sighs and unbuttons the union suit down to his bellybutton, pulls the sleeves off of his shoulders and puts on the billowy shirt, before unbuttoning the union suit the rest of the way and letting it fall out from underneath.

Frankie cups his hands in front of his crotch and both Napoleon and Claude have a hard time not laughing.

Claude hands him a pair of stockings and garters.

“Well I know what these are-” He shakes the stockings in one hand. “But not these.” He shakes the leather garters in the other hand.

Napoleon shakes his head.

“Garters, how else will your stockings stay up?”

Frankie sighs and sits down on the stool, and pulls the stockings on, before wrapping a garter around his thigh.

“No, just below the knee, they’ll slip if you put them around your thighs.”

Frankie buckles the garters on.

Claude pulls a pair of creamy white breeches out of the trunk and hands them to Frankie, who just stares at them.

“Did anyone wear these before me?”

“No, those haven’t been worn. You draw the tails of your shirt between your legs when tucking your shirt into your breeches, so even if they had been, no direct contact is made.”

While Frankie pulls on his breeches and buttons them, Claude buttons Frankie’s collar and buckles on his stock.

Claude hands him a pair of boots, which he pulls on.

“You are coming together, Frankie.”

“You’d think that, Napoleon. I feel like an idiot.”

Napoleon sighs.

Claude hands him a waistcoat and coat.

While Frankie puts on and buttons the waistcoat and pulls on the coat, Claude dusts off a hat.

“Great, and a hat too, huh? Can’t have me besmirching the French army, can you?” 

Claude tosses the hat at Frankie.

“I’m going to round up some of the men, I shall see you momentarily, Général.”

Claude bows respectfully and jogs out of the room.

“So... Would you prefer I call you ‘Frankie’, or your whole first name while you’re a French soldier?”

Frankie sticks the hat on his head.

“Call me Frankie, Francis, or Francesco, I don’t care.”

“Francis it is.”

_

Napoleon sees Frankie step on another soldier’s feet again and halts everyone.

“Francis, come here a minute.”

Frankie tromps up and does his best to stand at attention.

“Were you ever in the military?”

“Nah- I mean no sir.”

Napoleon sighs.

“Francis, I mean no offence, but you’re a terrible soldier."

“That’s why I didn’t get drafted, sir.”

Napoleon points him back in line and continues drills.

_

Napoleon only stops drilling once Frankie gets the moves correct, mostly.

“You’ve done good today, men. Find a group, set up your fire, and we’ll eat.”

Every soldier finds his preferred group, leaving only Frankie standing alone in the middle.

“Francis, join this group here.”

Napoleon points toward a group that always sets up in front of his and Claude’s tables. The whole group looks between themselves and grumbles quietly. Napoleon give them his best “Try me.” glare.

Frankie leans his gun on the wall and joins the group.

After several minutes of arguing they finally set up their fire, pull out stools, and set up the trivet.

Napoleon hears a mumble behind him and turns around to Al standing in the doorway.

“Hey, Napoleon, wanna talk?”

Napoleon dodges a few soldiers carrying his table and stool, and slips out into the hallway beside Al.

“Is there something urgent?”

“No, just wanted to talk to ya, we didn’t make much conversation while you were changing my bandages tonight. Sorry for yellin’ at ya when the door was locked yesterday.”

“It’s alright, Alphonse. Again I am sorry for looking into your life without asking you first.”

“I’m over it. What all did you learn anyway?”

“The most important would be is when you accidentally insulted a woman and got slashed by her brother, and you hate being called Scarface.”

“It wasn’t much of an accident....”

Several shouts of “Join us, Général!” pulls Napoleon out of the conversation.

“I have to go, I must converse with my men.”

Al nods quickly and turns to walk away.

“Uh, feel free to gather the rest of your men and join us, it’ll be much more interesting with some new company.”

Al turns back, grinning.

“Will do, Napoleon.”

Al salutes and jogs off down the hallway.

_

A few minutes before food is served, Al and his men show up, hovering awkwardly in the doorway.

Napoleon waves over a few men and has them set up a table and stool next to his own, with a bowl, spoon and knife. A few more soldiers set up some stools in other groups, away from Frankie.

Johnny, Tony and Ralph all find stools among the soldiers, while Napoleon waves Al over.

“Sit, sit, we’re about to eat!”

Al shuffles over and sits down. The stool creaks underneath him, and Al winces.

“They do that all the time, we’ve only had one break so far, do not worry u mo amicu.”

Al grins a little and drums on the table softly with his fingers.

“So what are we eating?”

A soldier comes around with a pot and a ladle, and pours bean soup in their bowls, Napoleon first, then Claude, and finally Al. 

Another soldier comes up with a plate of bread slices next half of a loaf, and a small platter with butter on it. He sets the half loaf and the butter on Napoleon’s table, and three slices each on Claude’s and Al’s tables. 

“Soupe de haricots and bread.”

Napoleon watches Al out of the corner of his eye, and notices him glance several times between his and Claude’s tables and Napoleon’s table.

“You sure get preferential treatment, eh Napoleon?”

There it is, the judgement. Napoleon sighs loudly. He waves over a soldier carrying platters and takes two, dividing the butter into thirds and giving both Al and Claude one.

“Général Sir, you know I don’t want butter on soupe de haricots night.”

Napoleon stares at Al as Claude slides the platter back to Napoleon’s table.

“If you want anything else, feel free to insult me again.”

“I didn’t... I’m sorry.”

“Un-training the etiquette is harder than just asking for something. Your apology is accepted.”

A third soldier comes up with three wine glasses and a bottle of wine. He sets the glasses down and pours the wine in the same order, Napoleon, Claude, Al. He sets the wine bottle on Napoleon’s table and walks off.

Al picks up his glass indelicately and sniffs it, a puzzled look on his face.

“Is it no good?”

“Nah... it’s just, I’m not good at identifying wine.”

“By the way you are holding that glass, I can tell you don’t drink it much.”

Al chuckles quietly.

“So... How’s Frankie been doin’? Hopefully he didn’t accidentally stab anyone.” 

“He came close a few times, but no injuries, aside from squashed toes.”

“Mmm. He didn’t mouth off to you at all did he?”

Napoleon cuts off a chunk of bread and butters it thoroughly.

“Fortunately no... Any more pain?”

“Nah, just tingly if I bump my neck.”

“That’s good.”

Napoleon spoons some bean soup on his bread and eats it.

Al snorts quietly.

“Nice, I do that too.”

Al spoons a big pile of beans on his own bread and manages to fit it in his mouth. Napoleon tries not to laugh when bean juice drips down Al’s chin.

Napoleon watches Frankie conversing with the other men in his group.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Général = General
> 
> Soupe de haricots = Bean soup
> 
> (I have not abandoned this fic, I just haven't had motivation!)

**Author's Note:**

> Translations, according to Google Translate:
> 
> U mo amicu = My friend
> 
> Accunciatu! = Exactly! (Apparently it also means Delivered!)
> 
> Monsieur = Mister
> 
> Bona notte = Good night
> 
> In effetti = Indeed
> 
> Ehi! Chì ci site in quì? = Hey! What are you doing in here?
> 
> Non = No
> 
> Baudet = Ass/Jackass/Asshole
> 
> Mon amie = My friend
> 
> Voulu = Agreed


End file.
